David Cronenberg: Get Happy

Suddenly we're interrupted by an aide bearing a tray of refreshments. My remark of "Here's God now" evokes a chilly smile from the aide, another Cronenberg disciple, who sets the tray down and all but sprints from the room. "Yes. God is in coffee and cookies," Cronenberg says, only kidding a little. "What is here is in fact complex and difficult enough to occupy more than one lifetime. We are responsible for what we do. And any morality that we have is not something some guy from outer space is gonna impose on us. You look at The Day the Earth Stood Still--what a wish fulfillment. Guys will come from outer space and they're gonna tell us to be good boys and we must do what we're told. And if we're not we're gonna be punished. And that's the only way we're gonna have peace on earth--a kind of an English schoolboy view of the universe, you know? That the headmaster will come and punish you if you're not good.

"One of the themes of my version of Naked Lunch is a man who's sort of living his life out of the corner of his eye. And is not accepting his homosexuality and is not accepting his art and is not accepting a lot of things. We're constantly running away from our own reality and our own selves. In his life, Burroughs was kind of fleeing the death of his wife-- it's kind of implicit in the novel. In my movie I make it explicit. But where the movie is quite different from the book is in the sense that it's more traditional, in that you have a real character who undergoes changes from beginning to end."

Hearing Cronenberg say the words "more traditional," I make the mistake of uttering the word "mainstream." "Where?" Cronenberg challenges. "Who said mainstream?"

"There was some mention of it in the production notes."

"I didn't say it--Pru must've made that up." David is laughing now. "It'll never be, it can't be a mainstream film because I know what mainstream really means. I get scripts that arc mainstream all the time and I'm not interested in doing that. The only reason it's mainstream is it's going to be distributed by Fox and it has some recognizable names in it who have done mainstream films and it should get decent distribution. But in terms of its sensibility it's not as mainstream as the book Naked Lunch is. The book was an incredible event when it came out and there's no way the movie's gonna match that, and I wasn't trying to do that. Burroughs's book took a number of years to suffuse through the consciousness of North America, but when it did... 'Saturday Night Live' humor in the early days was all Naked Lunch stuff."

David is excited about a packet of proof sheets that have just come in. The photographs are of Cronenberg behind the wheel of an old formula one car, competing in his last car race. "I just find a bunch of stiffs I know I can beat," he says. But those who have followed his racing passion claim he knows his way around the track well enough to win on his own. And not only that, he wants to make a racecar movie, Raceline (road warrior Mel Gibson has been rumored to be set for the lead). "I made a movie about racing a while ago called Fast Company and no critics ever want to talk about it because it doesn't fit." Cronenberg, who counted the number of German cars in the parking lot on the way in, naturally has seen every racing movie made in Hollywood.

"Grand Prix was successful. Steve McQueen did Le Mans, but he was so anti-melodrama that the movie's almost a documentary. There was a movie called The Racers, with Kirk Douglas, directed by Henry Hathaway in CinemaScope, Stereo Sound, made in 1955. I love watching it because all those cars are vintage cars now. When I saw Bobby Deerfield, I thought, this movie was made by someone who hates cars. It turns out that Sydney Pollack loves cars and is a total car freak, all that stuff. And something like Days of Thunder--it was damned before the elements were brought to it because it was misconceived and it was made for all the wrong reasons. I mean, I love racing and I was bored. It's sad, because it makes it difficult for the next person."

Cronenberg's movie will deal with "things about racecar driving that just haven't been said yet. Some things about racing are really fascinating and it's not all fear of dying and technostuff." Will he do it straight? David takes a small bite of God and gently whisks crumbs from his lap. "Yeah, well... sort of..."

My wife, who knows Toronto, has encouraged me to have dinner in Chinatown. But on my way there, a Croatian cab driver warns of shootings and gang wars. The possibility exists that my wife is distressed about my missing her birthday. In the morning, David is running late, which allows me to call her. "Tell David Cronenberg I appreciate what he's doing, but I still had to walk out of the room when I tried to watch The Dead Zone last night," she instructs me, not the least bit intolerable about my being away on her birthday. To avoid falling into a depressive stupor over her heartbreaking knack for being reasonable, I flee to the insensate comfort of television. Sally Jessy Raphael's show is on grannie-strippers. An 86-year-old woman can't manage to get out of her clothes before the stripper music ends. Well, when the reality is age, then age is the reality. I think I'm catching on.

"It's nice to be wanted," David remarks, hearing about the octogenarian stripper. Having discussed God, consciousness and the nature of reality, we're now discussing Hollywood. Cronenberg is accomplished at buffering his general disdain, but I'm still reminded of a few lines from Dead Ringers: "I have the residue of another life. I have to scrape it off of my shoe, once and for all."

"What goes on in Hollywood fascinates me as it does many people--there's some amazing people there, good and bad. And I have no qualms ... everybody goes to Hollywood to make deals whether you're Bergman or Bertolucci, or whoever--if you want U.S. distribution, presales and all that stuff. But I do think that I couldn't function in the system. There are directors who thrive on it--they love it, they do great. But for my art, I can't imagine writing in Hollywood. You write in Toronto in the winter, it's great. You're isolated, you're thinking only about what you're writing. I don't read the trades, I don't want to know who's doing what. You know, when my movie Dead Ringers came up, there were five other twins movies, including Big Business and Twins. There's always something vaguely similar out there and it's best not to hear about it."

It's here, perhaps, where David Cronenberg's subtly skewed perspective, like an Andrew Wyeth painting with a small ear painted on the side of one of those lovely farm houses, really hits me. Putting Dead Ringers in the same category as Big Business or Twins is like saying The Exorcist and Heidi were movies about little girls. Cronenberg probably thinks his upcoming project M. Butterfly is in competition with Batman Returns. A recurring phrase in Prudence's epic production notes comes to mind. Does "the danger of being creative" lie ultimately in operating with no point of reference?

"People who create art but don't realize that it can be dangerous often pay the price. There are a lot of suicides and a lot of slow deaths by drinking. So, it can be fatal. Part of it is yes, there's a thrill, and a desire, and a necessity to reveal yourself, but you want to do it cleverly, you want to do it in a way that you still feel protected."

The discussion turns to the recent death of Colleen Dewhurst (who appeared in The Dead Zone). It occurs to me, this late in the game, that I'm killing time with the Woody Allen of horror films. Death and dying are preoccupations of Cronenberg's. "She was a sweetie," he recalls. "It's sad--she had such force and presence. Then you hear about these 86-year-old strippers and it's like ah, fuck--I hope I'm able to stand up on a stage and take my clothes off when I'm 86--I'll tell ya, I wouldn't mind, if it meant a little more time. Ars longa, vita brevis--and that's no joke--I feel I'm just starting to get started. Talking about revealing your innermost vulnerabilities: the image of John Huston on the set with the oxygen mask in a wheelchair--I love it! You know, I want to say"here Cronenberg imitates the emphysemic Huston by growling into his palms to make his voice sound like it's coming from beneath a mask"Cut! Cut!"

It's my turn, now, to scrape the residue of another life from the bottom of my shoes. The reality is birthdays and having not found a suitable present for my wife--hashish makes her eyes water--I'm faced with the prospect of presenting myself a day late, without a gift, wearing the same socks I've had on since I left for Toronto. I wonder if my socks smell.

"They look okay," David reassures me, "but I'm not gonna sniff. Why?"

"It's my wife's birthday."

"Oh, really? My wife's was yesterday."

I learn that some of the most terrifying visions of reality have been conceived by a man who just gave his wife 41 roses for her birthday. With baby's breath. As we're walking out, David Cronenberg wants to know what I'll be giving to my wife for her birthday.

"Well, she just got a short hairdo."

"Ah... then she needs earrings."

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